Grumbler's Ride: Satan's Devils MC San Diego #2
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Satan’s Devils MC - San Diego Chapter #2
Contents
Production Acknowledgments
Cast of Characters
Satan’s Devils
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Other Works by Manda Mellett
Acknowledgments & Author’s Note
Stay in Touch
About the Author
Copyright
Published 2020 by Trish Haill Associates
Copyright © Manda Mellett
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book reviews.
www.mandamellett.com
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Warning
This book is dark in places and contains content of a sexual, abusive and violent nature. It may not be suitable for persons under the age of 18.
Production Acknowledgments
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
Edited and formatted by Maggie Kern @ Ms.K Edits
Proof reading by Melanie Darrow
Photographer: Golden Czermak of Furious Fotog
Model: Fred Dibella
Cast of Characters
Officers
Lost – President
Dart – Vice President
Grumbler – Sergeant at Arms
Salem – Enforcer
Scribe – Secretary
Bones – Treasurer
Blaze – Road Captain
Hard Token – Computer Expert
Patched Members
Brakes
Deuce
Dusty
Keeper
Kink
Niran
Pennywise
Reboot
Snips
Prospects
Connor
Curtis
Wrangler
Old Lady’s and Children
Alex (Dart’s): Tyler, Isla
Patty (Lost’s): Beth, Connor
Club Girls
Cindy
Eva
Pearl
Tits
Members Out Bad
Bastard
Crow
DJ
Rattler
Tinder
Deceased Members
Bird (ex-Prez)
Gator
Poke (ex-SAA) Dispatched to Satan
Shark
Smoker
Snake (ex-Prez) Dispatched to Satan
Chapter One
Grumbler
The whirr of the tattoo gun ceases as Blaze switches it off. “Gotta say that looks good, Brother, even if I do say so myself. Here, what do you think?”
Covered with tats as I am, the only spot I had free was under my left shoulder blade. As I can’t see it myself, Blaze takes a pic then passes me his phone. I eye the image he shows me and give a satisfied nod. It turned out better than I’d hoped, though I should never have doubted Blaze’s skills. In addition to my other tattoos, I now sport a skull smoking a cigarette, a tribute to the much-loved brother we’d lost a few weeks back.
Jeez, how I miss Smoker. He’d been my club brother for nearly thirty years. After the business with Snake and losing nine members three years back, he and I had been all that remained of the old guard. It was easy to figure out how Smoker got his handle. I can’t remember seeing him without a pack of cigarettes close at hand. Unsurprisingly, it had resulted in him receiving a terminal cancer diagnosis shortly before his death, but that hadn’t been what killed him. He hadn’t faded away, which had been the eventual outcome as he’d refused treatment. It had been his time, he’d accepted that. But instead of having those last few months with him, time I needed to prepare myself for his loss, he’d been shot. I’m still smarting from being robbed of those last weeks with him, a few more rides together, and evenings spent just shooting the shit.
Truth be told, I’m not sure if a couple more months watching him go downhill would have helped either me or him, seeing him suffering and being unable to do anything to help. Smoker would probably have preferred the end that he had. He’d died sacrificing himself for the club. Doesn’t mean I don’t still miss him like fuck though, which led me here today, honouring him in the only way I can.
“You know the drill. Want me to go through it again?” Blaze asks while cleaning his workstation.
Barking a laugh, I shake my head. With more tattoos than I can count, I don’t need him to go through the aftercare routine. I could probably teach him a thing or two about looking after newly inked skin.
“You heading straight back to the clubhouse?” He squirts more disinfectant onto a rag.
“Fuckin’ right. There’s a beer with my name on it. You ready to come, Blaze?”
“What d’you think I am, a part-timer like you?” Blaze chuckles at the expression on my face. “I’ve got another client coming in soon.”
Blaze does good work, with the result that the tattoo parlour brings in good money for the club. Seeing him preparing for said new customer to arrive, I wave my hand in a mock salute and leave. Bypassing the reception desk with just a nod at the pretty young thing sitting there—Blaze does the brothers tats for free—I emerge into the brilliance of a late summer’s day in San Diego.
Taking my shades out of my cut, I slide them on, then go to my Harley that’s parked patiently waiting for me outside. For a moment I stand, admiring it from a distance.
I’ve no woman or family, never wanted one if truth be told. The only thing I need in my life is my bike. All my spare money goes to maintaining it. A few months back, I’d had a spill and ended up dirty side down, hurting my baby as well as nastily breaking my leg. I don’t know which wound was worse. As usual, I inspect the Harley with a critical eye, seeing if I can spot a remaining scratch which hadn’t been fixed, or a dent that’s managed to hide up until now.
My brothers joke with me for having every Harley accessory known to man and then some. Each chrome addition I polish until it gleams. My normally dour expression lifts at times such as now, when I spot the sun glinting off the ‘Live to Ride’ plate covering the air filter.
It’s a beautiful machine, my sole mode of transport, and the love of my life. Without my cherished motorcycle or my club, what would I be?
A grumpy old man growing sourer by the day.
I saunter over to it, swing my leg over the saddle, grimacing at aches which weren’t there before the surgeons had to pin my leg back together, and lean forward to put my key in the ignition.
“Hey! Hold up.”
At the man’s shout I raise my head, looking around to see whose attention the voice is trying to attract. There’s no one around but me and the hippy type, one of the many we get in Southern California, running down the road heading straight toward me, a card of some sort held in his hands.
I frown, wondering what he could want. I could ignore him, press start, then kick down into gear and leave him in my dust but admit I’m curious as to why he’s yelling at me. I’m blocking no one in, and am, for once, legally parked.
When he gets close enough to speak, I say nothing, just lean my arms over the tank and raise an eyebrow.
He’s out of breath as he pants out, “This your bike, man?”
I admit to feeling a sense of pride as he’s all but drooling. “She’s mine.”
“She’s a real beaut.” His eyes take in everything from the eagle on the front fender, to the ornate license plate holder on the rear. “Must take you ages to keep the chrome gleaming like that.”
I admit I prefer to keep her neat myself, but if I don’t have the time, one of the prospects will do it. They know if there’s as much as a smear of polish left when they’ve finished, they’ll be in for a world of hurt. I tell him none of that. He can look and admire, but he’s not going to get anything else.
By now he’s realised I’m not the talkative type and stops waiting for me to answer. “The name’s Devon Starr.” He puts the card he was holding in his other hand and stretches out his right. I stare at it, but I don’t take it.
The man doesn’t look like a fed or a cop, but you can never be too careful. I haven’t lived the biker life for thirty years without becoming ultra-cautious.
For a moment, he looks dumbfounded, but he recovers fast, now shoving his card toward me. Idle curiosity makes me take it.
Devon Starr. Photographer.
Hmm. Perhaps he wants to take pictures of my bike? In my head, I have an image of my beloved machine on the cover of a magazine, or perhaps a centrefold spread. My heart starts beating faster—now, that, I could go for.
I raise my eyebrow again.
“My photos are used on the covers of novels.” He preens a little. “Many authors come to me for the right picture.”
“Novels?” I frown, my dream of seeing my Harley in a magazine for bikers disappearing. “What kind of fuckin’ novels?”
The photographer shrugs. “Anything they want. Some action and adventure, but mainly they’re romance.” He must notice my perplexed expression. Why the fuck would he be interested in my bike? I can’t see how that can sell love stories to women until he adds, “MC, motorcycle club romance is all the rage at the moment. People are crying out for pictures of hot bikers and hot bikes. And your bike is hot, man.”
My lips curve slightly. “You want to take my picture? You think it will sell books?” Jeez, I haven’t had a compliment like that in years, if ever.
“Er…” Devon looks a bit taken aback and shifts from one foot to the other. “Ah, no. C’mon, man, you’re not exactly the ideal of what young girls go for. Your bike, yes. Fuck, hell yeah, but you? Nah. The age bracket isn’t right.”
Raising only my eyes, I look up at him through my hooded lids. “So, let me get this right. You want to use my bike. Presumably with another model.”
His head bobs up and down. “Yeah. That’s right. That’s what I want to do. I’ve thought of the perfect place to do it, the beach. We can roll it onto the sand and…” his voice trails off, probably at my expression of what blown sand could do to my tank, and as for rolling darn near seven hundred pounds of bike over soft ground, there’s no telling what damage it would do.
Devon hastily backtracks. “On the sidewalk, with the sea in the background. I’m sure we can find somewhere to show it off.”
“And this other model? What would he do?”
“Sit on your bike—”
Seeing red, my tone reflects it. “Ain’t no one going to be touching my bike except me. Big fuckin’ disrespect right there. No man ever touches another man’s ride.”
The photographer seems unfazed. “Well, perhaps he can just stand beside it. That would do. We could make it work. What do you say, man? This motorcycle is wonderful. I really must get it in a shot.”
I haven’t survived being sergeant-at-arms for the Satan’s Devils MC without having a few wits in my head. Even if my body’s a bit slower nowadays, my brain still works fine. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of my cut, I tap one out. Nowadays, I rarely smoke, but it helps me think when I do.
Cupping my hand around my lighter, I put the flame to the tip and breathe in deeply. As I’m putting my Zippo back in my pocket, I ask lazily, “These models of yours, they get paid?”
“They wouldn’t do it for anything else,” Devon scoffs. “They don’t get a modelling fee per se, but when a photo is sold, we share a fifty-fifty cut.”
“Yeah?” I take another drag, then blow smoke out. “Okay, I’m interested. What do the photos sell for?” My new smartphone takes some darn good shots. I’m half considering if that’s something I could do myself. Our computer guy Token would help me set up a website, I’m sure.
The photographer goes quiet.
I nod and tap the pocket where I’d placed his card. “Presumably your rates are on your website.”
He sighs. “Six hundred dollars for a single model. Eight hundred for two. I take fifty percent, the model or models get the rest.”
That sounds quite lucrative for not doing much. “Uh-huh.” I push up to a seated position, folding my arms over my chest. “Let’s say I’m interested. But if I let you use my bike, she gets an equal modelling fee.”
“What?” His eyes go wide. “Your bike’s not a fucking model. It’s a prop.” I lean forward and my fingers hover over the push button start. When he’s quiet, I push it hard. “No, wait a minute,” he yells over the sound of the engine.
I turn it back off as he eyes my bike once again. If he wants an example of a tricked-out Harley, he’ll have a long way to go to find one better than mine. And find some asshole who’s prepared to have him take photographs of it for nothing.
I wait, my face turned toward him with one eyebrow raised.
He pinches the brow of his nose and then walks around the bike. “Look, how about I give you a hundred dollars for each picture sold?”
“How many will you sell?”
“Maybe none,” he replies, honestly. “Your bike on its own won’t help sales. It depends on the appeal of the models. If they prove popular, then we’re looking at single or double digits.”
So, I may get nothing, or I may get a hundred dollars if I’m lucky—maybe even get up to four figures for doing nothing at all.
“Let me get this right. I bring my bike to a photoshoot, you take pictures, then I sit back and wait for the money to roll in, or not, as the case may be.”
“That’s right, man.” He looks overeager, as if he’s got me on the hook now, and to be honest, he probably has. I’m proud of my baby and enjoy showing her off.
I’m assessing the situation and really can’t see any harm in it. My brothers are unlikely to find out. The types of books the picture of my bike would appear on aren’t ones that would interest them at all. Why read about the life when you’re actually living it? We’d watched Sons of Anarchy, sure, but only for a laugh. All that violence and death was unrealistic.
Hmm. That was before the business with Snake, our ex-president who betrayed the club. Living through that had shown perhaps our life is just as treacherous and brutal. Things have settled down now, of course. Though I suppose recently stopping a trafficking pipeline across the border isn’t exactly quiet, but we don’t often do shit like that, thank fuck.
That last es
capade had my current prez, Lost, finding his old lady as a result. The only downside was that Smoker had been a casualty.
A cough brings me back to the present. As I come back to myself, I realise, like the old man I am, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole of mental reminiscence.
I turn to the photographer and give him my terms. “Two-fifty per sale.”
His mouth opens wide. “Man, that’s going to break me. I’ve got to pay the models as well.”
“How long does the photoshoot last?” I query. “An hour, two?” When he nods, I say, “And for two hours work you just sit back and let the money roll in?”
“There’s the editing, the loading of photographs onto my website, promotion, running ads. There’s a lot more to it than just taking shots with my camera.” Twin spots of red appear on his cheeks as though I’ve insulted his manhood.
Once again, I reach for the start button. I’m not bothered one way or another, he’s the one with the most to lose.
“Two hundred, and that’s my last offer.”
There it is. I turn and grin at him, giving him a chin lift. “Two hundred.” I spit on my palm, then hold out my hand for him to shake.